writer

How do you balance a public profile being a private person? I’m writing while I’m thinking, because the subject often comes up, especially, as a blog writer.

Often the stories, poems, and prose are not even about me. But sometimes they are. Other times they are about parts of me or the people I see if that makes sense. Whatever the true subject or objective, the words used to express or describe are indeed mine. So, however, I dress it up, essentially, they are subjectively about something connected to me.

On a personal note, I keep everything close to the vest. I rarely disclose personal details about my life, my friends, my plans, or my family (directly). I’ve been this way as long as I can remember. If I do, then that means you’ve earned a level of trust somewhere in my mind and heart. A level that says similar to how I treat those who share their lives with me, you’re not going to go and shout what I say from the mountaintop. I cherish these relationships because they are difficult to find and hard to keep.

I’d liked to say this originated when I first heard the story of Zachariah in Bible school pre-adolescent, and subconsciously, it may have. However, I’m not convinced that’s true.

I’ve watched people over the years and in watching them, I’ve learned a great deal about boundaries. Everyone’s boundaries are different and I like to keep mine like a fortress at times, if not all the time. The problem I learned about living in a fortress is when you need help, it’s hard for help to find a way in. So the almighty and I struck a balance. He places people in my life I know I can trust and confirms their placement by their actions. It has been working thus far.

I’m sure I’ve been burned in the past, but that’s not what this is about. I am also an artist as I previously wrote earlier in this written dialogue currently happening in my head. And the craft of an artist is extremely public and often very personal. Whether the craft envelopes the artist’s personal challenges, triumphs, or something in between the content is almost always raw.

Thus my actual personal life, I like to keep personal and private. Not necessary a secret, but definitely private.

I had an encounter today with a friend girl of mine who innocently indirectly shared a personal component of my life on a public platform. She was only providing encouragement. Encouragement, I greatly appreciated. However, upon having a quick conversation she quickly understood and respected my wishes that I’d rather not have certain components of my life publicly discussed or commented on overtly. I am grateful for that and for her because others might have misinterpreted my call for discretion. And, turned a molehill into a mountain.

Said interaction brought me back to this confession moment. I regularly share my thoughts, experiences, and beliefs on an array of subjects on my blog and on my community Facebook page. I do so willingly and without reservation. Mainly, in hopes, it liberates someone secretly struggling with similar issues. If my transparency can save a life, provide hope, or simply let someone in the universe know they are not alone, then it’s worth it!

We live in a society where fear, shame, emotional distress, and emotional pain are bottled up until they blow up. So I write to let others know, they are indeed not alone, and most of what we battle are temporary distractions. If my public artist heart can save one soul then the open declarations are worth it every time.

Having said that, I was raised in the church. More specifically, I was raised in a church where every Sunday before communion the Pastor would call all those who had “sinned” during the week up to confess their sins one-by-one into the microphone, publicly, in accordance with our church doctrine before the entire church body. Sometimes these lines were ten to fifteen people deep. And, even after confessing their “sins”, they would each have to stand before the church before he prayed for them out loud about their specific “sin” before they were allowed to be seated.

This practice struck me as odd and invasive. Yet, for 18 years I watched the same people, week after week form a line down the right aisle waiting to be redeemed before as a church body, we could take communion. The practice troubled me, but it was tradition and it was not until years later I would experience something different, so I watched in silence week after week, month after month, and year after year until I was 18th and no longer required to attend church. Did my need for personal privacy stem from this, who knows? But, I do know I had my own silent struggles, I never felt comfortable sharing because of this practice and they followed me into adulthood.

So there was always an invisible shield on my internal thoughts for most of my life. I’m not saying I was muted but definitely guarded. And as luck would have it, for good reasons at times. So it’s rare and special when I really can be truly open on a personal level. I’m not harboring dark secrets. I just enjoy the sanctity of my personal life remaining personal.

Still seeking the right balance between publicly transparent and privately personal.

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Year one of my blog I attempted to write daily. I was more successful at times than others.

Year two I actually managed to write almost daily for a large part of the year.

Year three, I realized, I could not make the same commitment as other bloggers and set out to post at least once a month.

Last month was the first month I missed my mark. I didn’t stop writing, I just stopped posting. I go through these periods where I want to hold on to the drops of knowledge streaming from my mine. Eventually, I release them, once I feel they have germinated long enough to sprout and bloom.

I enjoy writing. I enjoy your comments and likes I think more than I realized I would. Sometimes, we have to hold onto ourselves a little longer so we remain whole, especially, as artists.

Artists create from experience.

Artists divulge secret thoughts in their artistry.

Artists are transparently exposed to the elements of the audiences’ minds, preconceptions, and suppositions.

Some of these elements are true and others not so much.

What prompts me to write today is a need to release in a form I have come to find solace.

My writing rejuvenates my soul.

I know people are hurting today by yet another demonstration of targeted misplaced hatred.

I recognize many are searching for answers and for some those answers will never come.

I appreciate the pause the nation, if not the world, has taken to grieve the senseless loss of life.

I mourn the slain.

I pray for their families, their friends, their love ones, and the love ones they will never have.

The tragedy is tragic.

The incident deserves space in our hearts, in our minds, in our thoughts, and yes, in our conversations.

My issue is not with the events.

My issue is with the reaction.

And, for some it may seem callous.

I confess, I questioned myself.

I wondered if living in this world has desensitized me in ways I do not understand.

I wondered if my anger at what I can only classify as debilitating thinking is right.

Am I wrong for cringing when I hear a person say “they no longer feel safe”?

It is extremely difficult to stomach, when it comes from a person of faith.

What is this weird concept of safety? We are only as safe as the intentions and dedication of someone else to harm us or themselves. Of course, there are things we can do to mitigate the threats to our safety, but living means we all live with a certain level of uncertainty. It’s called life. We seem to love creating boogeymen so we have a reason to raise our voices and be heard. Or close our doors and not be seen. Pick your prison!

“I’m screaming inside, because it would be impolite and disruptive to do so on the outside, “Hello, who do we put our trust in?” “What world do you live in?” “How can you proclaim power and cower every time darkness breaches the ‘Circle of Life”?”

As a writer, words build bridges.

As a writer, words tear down walls.

As a writer, words lift up dreams.

As a writer, words silence nightmares.

As a writer, words speak for the mute.

As a writer, words invoke change.

As a writer, words are eternally hopeful.

I guess what I’m saying is the situation in Orlando, in our nation, in our universe can breathe darkness in the shallowly places of our lands. In these times, we often lament about the incident long enough to allow time to pass before the next great tragedy. I am not here to take away someone else’s method of coping. If this is how one needs to cope, cope on.

I simply find myself frustrated with the lack of depth of our arguments, of our comments, or our display of power the size of a toothpick in an EF5 tornado.